


The Ancient Sea Calls Us Home

by skullshy



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: F/F, F/M, Found Family, Gen, Geralt accidentally built himself a family, HGTV Kaer Morhen, Happy Home Designer: Witcher Edition, I was disappointed that you couldn't renovate Kaer Morhen, Multi, Polyamory, no jealousy just love, so his family "accidentally" builds him a home, so this is my retaliation, this story also known as
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:28:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22324093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skullshy/pseuds/skullshy
Summary: For Geralt, retirement is less like vacation and more like rotting away in the frigid ruins of Kaer Morhen as his body slowly betrays him.His family, however, has other ideas.
Relationships: Dandelion/Priscilla, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Triss Merigold, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 11
Kudos: 88





	The Ancient Sea Calls Us Home

**Author's Note:**

> Since we have some new people to the fandom thanks to the Netflix series, I thought I’d write something to celebrate! WELCOME TO WITCHER, a tiny fandom where you slay monsters and sleep with everyone and accidentally have feelings? Yes? YES.
> 
> Let’s lay out some ground rules. In my version of Witcher, polyamory rules the day. There’s no need for these ridiculous jealousy tropes if we can all just fuck it out. That means Geralt/Triss/Yennefer in various permutations.
> 
> Also, in this corner of the universe, we stan Triss and Yenn! No bashing, just fully realized women with ambitions and flaws.. who just happen to love the same man lol.

It wasn’t the closest that Geralt had come to death— but it was still close. Painfully so. His kneecap had been shattered when the archgriffin dropped its prey on him. Witcher potions were the stuff of legends, but apparently fell short of a fat cow loosed from three hundred in the air onto Geralt.

The worst part was when he woke up in Kaer Morhen in the makeshift infirmary, with Lambert’s rude face looming over him. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Lambert said, “Tell Merigold I wasn’t going to take your gear until after we were sure you’re dead, will you?”

“Fuck off,” Geralt croaked. “Or I’ll bury all of my stuff under a pile of troll shit.”

“No need to be shitty,” Lambert snipped back with a huff. “Not my fault the Runemaster wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

“Lambert, you insulted his mare, of course he’s not going to enchant your stuff!” Dandelion called out, sweeping into the infirmary. “Hello, Geralt. Glad to see you’re finally awake.”

Lambert threw a chunk of rubble at Dandelion before he left. Dandelion dodged it with ease, well-used to ducking around temperamental witchers. 

Dandelion took a seat next to Geralt’s infirmary bed, his lute in his lap and a fist full of repair tools.

At Geralt’s questioning glance, Dandelion winked. “Just giving her a little tune-up. It’s been a hard road, hasn’t it, my love?”

Geralt buried his head in hands and groaned. The movement caused him to cough. Soon Dandelion had to help him into a sitting position to sip some water, soothing his aching throat and lungs. The way Dandelion wouldn’t quite meet his eyes told him more about his condition than any herbalist could.

Once Geralt was resettled, Dandelion went back to trying to restring his lute. Geralt stretched out his hand and placed it on the body of the lute, stilling Dandelion.

“Tell it to me honestly, Dandelion,” Geralt rasped.

Dandelion grimaced. “Well, look at it this way: no need to endure any more of my songs about your exploits, huh?”

Geralt translated that in his head from Dandelion-speak to normal, human language.

“No more witchering?” he scraped out.

Dandelion met his eyes briefly, true regret shining in them. Then he bowed his head. Both were quiet for a long time, the only noise the plucking as Dandelion tuned his lute strings one by one.

Geralt expected to feel angry, bitter and disappointed. Instead, he just felt empty. He knew retirement was on the horizon— it had been for a long time. His reaction times weren’t what they used to be, and his bones were starting to feel their centuries of abuse. 

Geralt had expected to die on the field of battle. He had expected to die awhile ago. 

But he was alive, and he had no purpose.

Vesemir was gone, the witchers were dwindling, and his friends all had lives of their own. Those lives were going to continue on as he stagnated away to his slow death in the ruins of Kaer Morhen.

Geralt pulled the blanket over his face and willed himself back to oblivion.

—

The next time he woke was unexpected. There was a banging noise above him, like a battering ram applied to the ceiling of Kaer Morhen. Geralt tumbled out of bed, reaching for his sword— only to hear shouts.

“Your right! No, your other right, Vengerberg! You’re the greatest sorceress in the world, and you still can’t tell your directions?!”

“Merigold, I’d like to see you fix the roof of an entire fortress—”

The rest of the sentence was lost in the noise of part of the roof over the armory caving in. 

“Maybe we do need an architect,” Dandelion tendered out. “I know a good one, he redid my tavern after that brawl—”

“We do not need an _architect_ ,” Yennefer hissed. “I am perfectly capable of—”

The eastern battlements crumbled into what was left of the kitchens, blasting the entire fortress in stone dust. Geralt got a lungful and started coughing. To his growing dread, he couldn’t stop. It felt like his lungs were trying to crawl up his esophagus and he couldn’t catch his breath.

He wheezed and clawed at his throat—

And there was cooling relief, and the yellow-gold magic of Triss enveloping his torso, easing his breath. Geralt turned around, achingly slow, and beheld an impossible sight.

“Triss, what are doing here?” he asked.

Her warm smile didn’t quite hide her concern. “Lay down, Geralt, your lungs still haven’t healed yet.”

Geralt tucked himself back into bed with a groan. 

“It’s not gonna heal,” he muttered. 

It was said that witchers couldn’t feel— but that wasn’t precisely true. Geralt could feel the dread pooling in his stomach at a distance, as his mind finally caught up with the reality of his new existence as a permanently crippled, aging mutant—

“Not with that attitude, it won’t,” came a tart voice from the entrance of the infirmary. “Honestly, Geralt, have a little faith in our magic!”

Geralt beheld another impossible sight: Yennefer, her elegant clothes covered in dirt and dust.

“What— what are you both doing here?” he finally asked.

Yennefer came to stand next to Triss, a hand on Triss’ shoulder. That in and of itself was a miracle, that his two loves were getting along.

“Did you think we were going to leave you to rot in a moldering fortress? Even Keira’s hut was more weather-proof than this place!”

Geralt did actually think that everyone would leave him to rot, especially after he rejected the very lucrative offers to join them in Koviri or Novigrad or honestly anywhere that wasn’t Kaer Morhen. But he didn’t say that aloud, because there was only one thing worse than a disappointed sorceress: _two disappointed sorceresses_.

“Didn’t expect you to try your hand at renovating, that’s all,” was what came out.

Triss sniffed. “Well, we’ll be more careful, won’t we Yen? Not to put the cart before the horse or the roof before the walls have been properly reinforced?” 

The glares between the two women could have frozen a rapid bear in mid-rampage. Geralt braced himself for sparks flying and tip-toeing around his own house for a week, when Yennefer’s glare morphed into a rueful smile.

“Yes, dear,” she teased, and then kissed Triss on the mouth before flouncing off.

“Holy fuck,” Geralt said, as he felt his brain explode. Triss and Yenn getting along _and_ fucking each other? What was the world coming to?

Triss laughed, and tucked Geralt back into bed. 

“We’ve come to a consensus, Yenn and I,” she informed Geralt with a blush. “Now go back to sleep, I’ll make sure Yenn doesn’t do any more property damage while you rest.”

“Yes, mom,” Geralt snarked, and fell back asleep.

—

Eventually, Yennefer did portal in an architect, along with a handful of dwarven masons and a couple tons of wood and stone. By the time spring rolled around, Geralt could hobble around with a cane for half the day and the fortress was more inhabitable than it had been in centuries.

A good thing too, because Ciri had escaped her imperial court minders in Vizima to come visit him. Geralt had a pathological need to keep Ciri from worrying— she was already empress of a volatile and ruthless country, and she did not need to worry about a curmudgeonly Geralt who couldn't quite move on from the past.

Ciri portalled in on a crisp, cold, but sunny morning. Geralt could barely take in her changed appearance— older, more confident, yet with fire still in her eyes— because Ciri tumbled into his arms and squeezed the life out of him. 

“I’ve been so worried about you!” she whispered into his aching shoulder. “Dandelion said that a whole cow dropped on you!”

Geralt was going to murder Dandelion the next time he saw him.

“I think he exaggerated a little,” Geralt lied. “You know how he is.”

Ciri stepped back with a laugh.

“Yes, I do know, which is why I wanted to check on you in person— is that a cane? Oh dear, you really are hurt—”

She had her hands on her hips, her face full of stern worry, but Geralt’s attention was focused on the two children at Ciri’s side. The little girl was sucking her thumb, and the boy was knuckling his eyes in sleepiness. At the expression of wonder on Geralt’s face, Ciri softened.

“This is my half-sister Emryn, and her friend Jakub. I rescued them from orphanages, one in Nilfgaard and one in Aedern.”

Geralt knelt down, knees trembling until he was at the children’s eye-level. Emryn buried her head into Ciri’s leg and hid her face. Jakub stared at him with hauntingly familiar purple eyes.

“Hi Emryn. Hi Jakub,” Geralt rasped. “It’s nice to meet both of you.”

It was all that Geralt had ever wanted for Ciri— not to follow in his footsteps necessarily, but to be happy and safe and able to build a life she loved and surrounded by those she cared about. And here she was, a woman grown, fixing the mistakes of her biological father and striving to make the world a better place.

It made him so damn proud.

As he lurched to his feet, he heard the sound of high heels and boots— Yennefer and Triss, respectively, clattering down from one of the rebuilt towers to see Ciri for themselves.

“Oh darling, you look marvelous,” Yennefer gushed as she drew Ciri into her arms. “Did you start seeing that hairdresser I told you about? You did, didn’t you?”

Ciri smiled. “I did— but I’m still not going to your tailor, no matter how much you nag! Triss doesn’t wear dresses!”

“Don’t drag me into this,” Tris muttered as she knelt down to greet the children. “I only just got her to stop nagging me about my frizz.”

But Yennefer did not shoot back with her usual quip, because she was stunned speechless by the sight of Jakub.

“He has my eyes,” Yennefer whispered as she reached out a hand.

Tentatively, Jakub put his tiny, deformed hand into Yennefer’s. She swept him up into her arms, tears streaking down her cheeks.

“Why does he have my eyes?” Yennefer choked out.

“It was something Geralt said, that made me think of searching for other children,” Ciri admitted. “I think he’s your half brother, or maybe your nephew. But I thought…”

“Gods yes, you thought right,” Yennefer murmured. 

Triss handed her a handkerchief and helped her wipe her tears without jostling Jakub too much. 

“Come, my prince, let’s get you out of the cold, shall we?” Yennefer said, and they all followed her in.

Ciri exclaimed with wonder at the changes to Kaer Morhen. Even when she had been training at the fortress, it hadn’t looked this good. The dwarves had leveled the stone floor on the first floor and added warm woods and tapestries wherever they could. What resulted was a warm and inviting home, with plenty of room for Triss and Yenn’s magic shenanigans with many guest rooms for their friends.

Yenn had also refused to eat what passed for Geralt and Triss’ cooking, and so brought on a cook and some staff to keep them all fed and clean. If they noticed that all of the staff were misfits who couldn’t find work elsewhere due to race or gender or other circumstances, they didn’t point it out. One did not tease the greatest sorceress in the world for having a heart of gold and expect their genitalia to remain intact.

The cook was a half-elven woman with a few scamps of her own, and immediately conjured some children’s chairs for Emryn and Jakub. Yennefer put way too much food on their plates, and put pierogies on Geralt’s plate, even though she knew damn well how much he hated them. He threw them at Triss, but missed— and they landed in Ciri’s hair. Ciri laughed so hard that she cried, and failed to notice that Emryn had grabbed a handful of roast beef.

Emryn threw the roast beef. The sauce splattered across Geralt’s face, while the meat whistled past— right into Yennefer’s face.

It grew quiet— all waiting for Yennefer to explode in anger. To their astonishment, she just conjured a napkin and wiped herself clean, followed by Jakub’s face.

“I suppose, as the most civilized member of this family, it falls to me institute order and good manners,” she remarked.

And then she conjured a whole roast duck and threw it in Triss’ face.

—

It took several hours to clean up the mess, and for once, Yennefer’s giant bathtub wasn’t big enough. They bathed in shifts— Yenn and Jakub, followed by Ciri and Emryn.

Triss and Geralt were last. She reheated the water with a wave of her hand, and they both slipped in. Triss soaped them both and rinsed them, with a brisk efficiency born of Geralt’s long months of infirmity.

Then they both nodded off in the warm water.

Dusk turned to evening when Yennefer came and got them. She dried off Triss and magicked her into bed, before waking Geralt with a kiss.

“Up, sleepy head. I know you don’t like being magicked,” she murmured.

“Whose fault is that, I wonder?” Geralt grumbled, but he obliged and stepped out of the tub. 

Yennefer dried him and helped him into the den of mattresses they had cobbled together. Jakub was wrapped in furs, tucked into Triss, who was least likely to kick in the night. Triss was back-to-back with Ciri, who held a gently snoring Emryn. Geralt slide in next to Emyrn, and Yennefer bracketed him on the edge. 

They were all warm and safe, and for the moment, together. 

“Did you ever dream it could be like this?” Yenn whispered in his ear, as she draped her arm over him.

Geralt took her hand and cradled to his chest.

“Never, in my wildest dreams,” he told her.

And they fell asleep like that, Yennefer’s warm breath on his cheek, Ciri’s elbow in Triss’ hair, and two little ones safer than they had ever been in their short lives.

—

The End

**Author's Note:**

> It's been awhile! Hi guys! 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your well-wishes on my last fic. I do have a new job and career now, which I'm enjoying so much more. It's certainly less stressful!
> 
> Anyway, I watched the new Witcher Netflix series and loved it. I've played the games and read the books, but there's just something about TV that brings to life the characters that I know and love. I know some people were shitting on it, but obvs they weren't watching the same show as me. I mean, look at Dandelion's ass! You could bounce a coin off of it! ;D
> 
> Ugh, I just love Yenn and Triss and Geralt. XD


End file.
